Words, Booze, Feminism, for hire.

They Still Make You?

I love working the bar at special events. It means I get to be part of something really special, minus the oppressive need to small talk. I also like getting to work with a different crew almost every time–that ADHD brain need for variety satisfied in every way.

But there’s always the risk of bad eggs when the cast of characters rotates that much. Recently, after a particularly fun catering job, the dude I was working with asked if I could give him a lift home. He lived nearby, he said. I also lived nearby, and since we were colleagues and all, it was a no-brainer. Sure, I’d give him a ride. It was late, and I had something really important to do the next day, and I told him so, and he assured me he lived “5 minutes away.”

Reader: 15 minutes later I arrived at the entry of an apartment complex, where he had directed me to drop him off. In between, as I, with increasing annoyance, asked where my next turn was and deflected compliments about my bartending performance (in fact: professional) and hairstyle (in fact: Pippi Longstocking-esque–gotta keep the mane out of the face), this friggin guy tried to hold my hand. Like: he took my hand off the wheel and put it to his mouth. I drew it back. I needed that hand to drive, I said. Also, I added, with a great inward sigh of resignation that this was likely the only thing that would make him cool it with the antics, I had a boyfriend.

The only reason I can now think of that this dude would manipulate me into driving his cheesy ass an extra half hour in the wrong direction in the middle of the friggin night is that he thought I would be flattered?

I was not flattered. I was pissed. Not so much because he violated my personal space by trying to make out with my damn hand, but because I thought I was done with this shit. I’m 37 friggin years old. I have an adult woman’s pants size and a nascent neck waddle. And before anyone asks: I don’t vibe sexy. If I do send off signals, the vibe is “battleaxe,” or “cranky grandma;” at any rate, a far cry from “dtf.”

Reader: I reported him. Fuck that guy. The incident might have been minor, but the assumption from which it came was off the charts wrong. This isn’t a horrible thing that happened, but it’s a symptom of an attitude that needs dismantling.

If you think for one second that the presence of alcohol entitles you to hit on your damn coworkers, please find a time machine. Gtfo of my car and my century.